


A Study of the Base Instincts of the Human Male

by NovaMist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Community: fandom_stocking, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaMist/pseuds/NovaMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is somewhat baffled by the behaviours that his flatmate seems to stir up in him. Sherlock/girl!John</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study of the Base Instincts of the Human Male

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Medie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/gifts).



> This didn't turn out quite the way I imagined it would, but Sherlock IS drunk on both alcohol and the lady he shares his life with.
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated! :-)

Sherlock experiences a rare moment of what he realises must be shock as looks down at his knuckles, bruised and bloodied, and then to the man lying stunned on the pavement, a hand hovering uselessly over his nose as a river of blood flows from it.

He can feel her hands on his back, his shoulders, dragging him backwards, away from the foul-smelling imbecile whose primitive actions seemingly – unexpectedly – motivated Sherlock’s own.

She is yelling at him, but Sherlock cannot make out the words, buzzing from adrenaline and alcohol. He knows she is angry, and she seems more frightened than she often is while bolting around the icy streets of London with him, in wild pursuit of a serial killer or a drug lord or a mafia don. That frightened look makes Sherlock want to kick the drunken man bleeding all over the footpath a few more times. “How dare you, y–”

Her hands – small, strong hands that Sherlock knows can kill without the need for a weapon – frame his face, pulling him towards her. There is a chill to the air that hasn’t reached those hands, still warm from the pub they were sitting inside until mere minutes ago.

“Sherlock,” she says, her voice quiet, but dangerous. “We need to leave now, okay?”

Sherlock is not silly enough to disagree with her. Sherlock shoots the drunken hooligan one last filthy look before she drags him away and they slip into the night.

***

Despite her insistence he do so, Sherlock is reluctant to sit down when they return to Baker Street; the rush of adrenaline he is feeling at the moment is unlike any he’s felt before. The alcohol has left him feeling pleasantly fuzzy-headed. Regardless of the pain he is feeling in his hands – hands he relies on to do his work, to play his violin – Sherlock cannot sit still. He feels like he needs to keep moving, keep the lookout, keep…

“Sherlock!” she snaps at him.

He turns his head to look at her; evidently, she has lost the last shred of her seemingly endless patience. She is barely five-foot-five – at six foot, he has seven inches in height over her and must look down to meet her eyes when they are both standing – but she refuses to be pushed around. Sherlock wonders if her time in the military moulded and shaped her into this strong, seemingly unbreakable creature with whom he was so absorbed. _But no,_ Sherlock deduces as he observes her face, her frown lines. _That glare has been the same for decades…the furrows in her forehead and around her eyes demonstrate–_

“Damnit, Sherlock!” she snarls. “Stop deducing me for a minute and _listen_. Now, what is it exactly you were doing back there?

“I was eating an extremely heavy meal, at your insistence, and–”

“Sherlock,” she repeats tiredly. She does not sound pleased.

Drunk as he is belatedly realising he is, Sherlock knows from previous experience – when Sherlock has left body parts in the microwave, or in the fridge, or on ice in the bathtub, or when the chip-and-PIN machine at the supermarket has not performed to her expectation – that this is not a positive development.

“What exactly were you thinking when you launched yourself at that man, fists flying?”

Sherlock is surprised. She has just asked him a silly question. She doesn’t tend to do that. “He insulted you.”

Her eyebrows go up. “So?”

“So, he insulted you!” Sherlock retorts, weaving slightly in his seat. _Maybe the chair has wobbly legs?_ He knows most of the furniture in the living room needs fixing after that last, rather explosive, experiment of his. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

Her mouth twists slightly. Whether it’s in amusement or disgust, Sherlock cannot tell. _Perhaps a mixture of both?_

“Yes,” she says after a moment. “I heard what he said. No reason to get into a punch-up over it.”

“Hmmph,” Sherlock responds. “He said something extremely disrespectful about your anatomy and could not be reasoned with verbally. Nor could he be cowed by verbal insults. I suspect his brain was either too sodden with alcohol, or that it merely cannot process thoughts more complex than where his next pint is coming from,” Sherlock sniffs. “Punching him seemed the next logical course of action.”

She looks at him for a long moment, her eyebrows climbing so far up her forehead during his spiel that they are barely visible beneath her overgrown fringe – (“I’m _growing it out_ , you halfwit! I’m willing to pay for a bloody _haircut_! Go and deduce something of use!” The beauty regime of the human female continued to be a subject of bafflement to Sherlock) – and for a moment, Sherlock is not sure if she may shoot him out of sheer irritation. _Probably not a fatal wound,_ Sherlock concludes. _If only because finding another flatmate to pay the other half of the rent would positively excruci–_

“Sherlock,” she says finally. “You are an idiot.”

Sherlock isn’t sure what to say to that. He has very rarely been called an idiot, but the look of amusement on her face silences him. He has amused her. To say he is relieved is an understatement. He smiles back tentatively, not sure what he should do in response to maintain her sudden good cheer.

She shakes her head, still smiling, and walks to the bathroom – with no sign of the limp, which Sherlock takes as a positive indication the violence of this evening did not have an adverse affect on her. She returns a few moments later with a basin and the first aid kit, and begins washing and dressing his injured hand.

Sherlock is baffled. But then, if there is one person in the world Sherlock finds hard to read, it is Doctor Jacqueline Watson.

But she is smiling now, tending to his wounds, humming softly to herself and calling him an idiot but looking pleased at the same time.

Sherlock isn’t quite sure _what_ to think.

When she has finished wrapping his hand, Jackie gently entwines her fingers with his. It’s times like this that Sherlock remembers that she is an excellent doctor; she manages to do this without causing him pain in his injured hand.

“Although I really can take care of myself,” she says quietly, straight into his ear in a way that makes Sherlock shiver slightly. “Thank you for defending my honour.”

Sherlock feels himself going a bit pink.

“I didn’t realise before,” Jackie continues. “But you’ve been doing that since we first met. It’s nice to know the affection I feel towards you is returned.”

“Um,” is all Sherlock can articulate as he has a sudden and startling vision of killing a large, edible beast of some sort and dragging it back to their flat for Jackie.

But despite the fact that Sherlock knows that, in reality, Jackie is the better hunter and he the better cook, all he can think is: _Fascinating…_

Sherlock has long suspected himself to be completely and utterly devoid of a true heart in the metaphorical sense, and ergo lacking in all but the most basic human instincts of _hunger_ and _warmth_.

But Jackie…Sherlock realises he wants to protect this woman, this small, strange, sweet-smelling creature who is willing to put up with Sherlock and his quirks when most would simply return to the small but perfectly inhabitable bedsit Jackie used to reside in. She's a part of his life now. He can't imagine his existence without her. And not just because she tells him his deductions are "incredible" and "amazing", when everyone else tells him to piss off.

He hates seeing her cry, he wants to console her after her nightmares...he’s even willing to go to the supermarket with her so she doesn’t have to deal with the chip-and-PIN machine (even if he insists its only so he can people-watch and educate her about technology).

And he just broke a man’s nose for making a drunken, slurring remark about her breasts (which Sherlock has indeed noticed are larger-than-average, but told himself he has noticed no such thing). Breasts which are currently smack in front of Sherlock’s eyes.

“Um,” Sherlock says again. _Perhaps its true that men are struck dumb around attractive women?_

Jackie smirks at him, and then offers him her hand. He takes it, not knowing where she’s leading him, but knowing he’ll follow her to Hell and back at the moment.

 _Instinct,_ thinks Sherlock, _is a most peculiar thing._


End file.
